


Your General

by forestofmyown



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Humor, M/M, Military, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9307505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: The war is over, and you don't know where you stand anymore.  Too much alcohol leads to too much thinking, and all that thinking seems to focus on one person in particular.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another rewrite, posted at: http://imaginingmyforest.tumblr.com/
> 
> TW: Lots of drinking, mentions of war and battle and death

The war is over, Ulfric is dead. You’re exhausted and proud, but also tired and relieved and ready to go to bed and wake up to a peaceful country. It feels good, you think, having had a part in this, having defended what is now your home, stopping the bloodshed. The cost was high, the guilt will probably never fade, but you fall asleep with a smile on your face, because all you can see in your mind's eye is the image of General Tullius, standing before his men, delivering a speech he just wants over with, looking as blank-faced as ever, but his back is straight and tall. Victory.

When you wake, the awareness that there are no more true battles to fight has you staring at your ceiling, a relaxed stupor taking over. What will you do now? You don't know. The Legion has been your life. Even now, you feel the pull of the training yard, the briefing room, the low lights above the parchment map, and the drone of the voices of your commanding officers.

You don't have to go. You go anyway.

The General's greeting is as terse as ever, his eyes flicking to you once before returning to his work. "Legate."

"General." You wonder what he's doing, staring down at that drawing of Skyrim. It's covered in red flags, nothing more.

"I've got no orders for you, Legate. See Rikke, she might have some backwater camp somewhere for you to take out."

You let a moment pass in silence, debating. Action sounds wonderful. Peace is wonderful, too, but you’ve confused yourself, trying to understand your place in a world that isn't fighting itself anymore. You'd been important before; what are you now?

Does he feel the same, staring down at that map like he sees it, eyes still and unfocused like he doesn't?

"What now, sir?" You ask finally, quietly.

He glances up. "Clean up, mostly. Leftover camps, like I said."

"For us?"

He stares for an instant, and you wonder what gives him pause, thinking about your words. But before you’ve sorted it out, he's already moving on, 'us' being the Legion. "New assignments, mostly guard duties till the transitions can be made from Stormcloak loyals to Imperial supporters. Peaceful days."

The last part trails off, like he finds it boring. A half smile finds its way onto your face.

"And you, sir?"

"Me?"

"Heading ... home?" You'd meant that sentence to be longer, but can't get the words out. He seems satisfied, but your mind races, wondering what has gotten into you, what is going on inside.

"I fear Skyrim will be my home for many more years to come." He sighs, obviously displeased, but then he stands, and he's as tall as you remembered, not in stature, but in presence. "I suppose the idea isn't as unappealing as it once was. I could use a decent bed, though. Everything in this castle is as cold as the stone it’s made from."

You smile for real then, and his expression tells you he caught the relief in it, the relief you yourself weren't expecting, don't know what to do with. Instead, you ask, "Drinks tonight at the Winking Skeever? To celebrate? On me."

"I don't celebrate."

You laugh. "I don't doubt it. But we just ended a war, General. Take a night off. You need the down time, even if only for one evening."

"I have to agree with Y/N on this one, sir." Both look to the door, finding Rikke has joined them. The two of you nod to each other, polite smiles in greeting.

Tullius scowls, peering back over his map for no real reason. "Anything to report, Legate?"

"Which Legate?" You smirk, and Rikke stifles the tiniest of laughs.

Tullius groans. "Don't make me reassign you somewhere, Y/N. Winterhold's sounding very tempting right now."

"Then you wouldn't have any friends, sir," Rikke comments lightly.

"I'll have the darn drink, alright?" He finally growls. "Stop ganging up on."

Rikke nods, satisfied, and you pat her on the shoulder in thanks. You lean over to the room's other silent occupant, the ever present watchdog. "You too, Adventus."

He grins, nodding. "If I can escape this hole, I'll be there."

"Think we should invite Aldis?"

"And pull him from his beloved training exercises? Curse the thought."

Rolling his eyes at their companionship, Tullius resumes his earlier thread of conversation. "Now, do you have anything to report, Legate Rikke?"

Rikke nods, growing serious. "Camp along the mountain ridges in Eastmarch. Rumors out near Dawnstar, nothing solid."

"Clear out Eastmarch and check Dawnstar. I want these Stormcloaks rounded up as quickly as possible."

"Sir."

"Take the Legate-"

"Y/N."

"Take the smart-alek with you. They apparently don't have enough work to do."

"Then we'll leave in the morning." Rikke replies easily.

You are just as smooth. "Since we'll being having those drinks tonight."

Tullius only shakes his head. "Leave me in peace."

You exit together, as ordered. And later that evening when he finally brings himself to enter the Winking Skeever, you are seated together at a table near the back, drinks already waiting. You laugh at the look on his face, pulling out the seat beside you.

"It's not that bad," you reassures him. "We sat away from other people and everything."

Your argument is almost convincing until Lisette pulls out her lute and a particularly appreciative drunk gives a riotous cheer. Tullius looks pained, then grabs the nearest drink and downs it. Rikke chuckles with you.

"I hate both of you."

"Relax, General." Rikke tips her mug to him, as cool as ever. "Enjoy the mead."

He shots his drink a dark look. "Is that what this is?"

You’re laughing, and you get the feeling you'll never stop. Tullius is so obviously out of his element, you can't help but enjoy the ludicrous situation. "You're just as surly drunk as you are sober, aren't you?"

He only grunts in response, lowering his head like the physical act will somehow make the room quieter, dimmer, and less populated. You can almost see the headache beginning in his temples.

You look to Rikke, head shaking. "Do either of you ever wear anything except your armor?"

"When I'm off duty." She gives a small smile. "Which is practically never. I don't know about him."

Tullius is studiously ignoring you.

"Somehow, I can't picture you in anything but your armor," you comment, but are again met with silence.

You give his arm a playful shove. "You call this celebrating?"

"No, I call this a waste of time at best, torture at worst."

"You exaggerate. Why are you so grumpy? I bought you alcohol."

"Am I getting some of that?"

All three look up to find Adventus has joined you. Tullius is nonplussed, but Rikke stands to greet their new addition. You smile up at him from the table. "You bet, soldier."

Rikke calls to the innkeeper over the space of the room. "Corpulus, more mead!"

Your grin spreads across your face, colored by beverage intake, as you look to each of your companions. "So, three Legates and a General step into a bar-"

"Oh, don't start." Rikke laughs, making room at the small table for the incoming drinks.

You scoop up the nearest Honningbrew and a tall bottle of Argonian Bloodwine, which Adventus had his hand halfway towards. He opts for the Spiced Wine instead, toasting you good-naturedly. "Just to warn you, I might have went ahead and mentioned to Aldis there was a party going on and he was invited. Drinks on you."

He smirks, and you groan while Rikke chuckles. "You trying to spend all my gold?"

"You did say drinks on you."

"I said the General's drinks were on me," you correct. "To coax him out of his hiding hole. You guys are on your own from here on out."

"You still owe Aldis a round when he gets here."

"You're the one who promised him free drinks; you supply."

"You're the one with all the money, so-called 'Adventurer.' Half the time no one can even find you for assignments because you're out plundering some crypt or something."

"Plundering? Hardly! I exterminate Draugr sometimes. I happen to be a bounty hunter-"

"And whatever else any stranger passing in the streets asks you to be," Rikke adds from over the top of her drink.

You lean back, pouting. "I like to help people."

Adventus shakes his head. "You like to get in trouble. Ever think about getting yourself a someone and settling down?"

Now you’re grinning again, motioning with your drink around the table. "What're you talking about? I've got three men, a woman, and a bottle of wine. I'm perfectly settled."

Adventus is laughing, but Rikke glances around curiously. "Three?"

And there is Aldis, pulling up a chair between Tullius and Adventus, forcing the two to make more room. Tullius brushes up beside you, so you smack him on the back. "Go on and say hi, General. You're being awful quiet."

"Just trying to enjoy my drink." His voice says he doesn't think it's possible. "Can hardly stand this Nord Mead."

"There was wine, but Y/N took it all," Adventus comments, conspicuously pushing his empty bottle to your side of the table. "Have them get you some when they get Aldis his drinks."

Even Tullius manages to look amused by your scowl, but the expression slips away quickly. "Still, I'm not used to the Skyrim brands. I enjoyed a good bottle of Surilie Brothers back in Cyrodiil every now and again."

"They don't sell that in here," you join in, piking up. "But I've got some back at the house, picked up from around. You want a bottle?"

He's pushing away from the table and standing as quickly as you’ve ever seen him move outside of battle. "Gods, yes."

You stand up too, following his retreat. "Hey! I meant later! Come back here-"

You’re after him with an apologetic look to your company, tossing down a bag of septims before racing from the tavern. He's marching down the street with his usual strides, stiff and tired, silver hair glinting in the glow of the evening moon. You catch up, fall in naturally beside him, miffed but aware that the night feels good and the sky is beautiful up above and that you like the musk coming off him in the cool air that the stuffy bar had masked. Your indignation is all but gone by the time you start your argument.

"That was a friendly offer for some other day, not an excuse for you to pick up and leave."

"Can't stand it in there."

"So you can handle a bloody battlefield but not a night drinking with friends?"

He's slowing, glances at you and sighs. "Exactly. I'm a warrior, Legate, not a politician."

"This isn't political, it's friendly."

"Don't see a difference."

"You're impossible."

"Then go drinking with someone else. I doubt you're lacking for friends."

"Hm." You sidle up close for a second, laying your head against his arm. "Maybe I like you better."

"Hmph."

He doesn't seem to care you’re there, and you continue to walk like that, staring up at him with a smile that says you know you’re being annoying, and his face as blank as ever.

He always looks tired, you think. From living too long, through too much. You wonder what his smile would look like, then find yourself laughing because you just can't imagine it. It's too awkward, too surreal; it's not him, not your General. Perpetually annoyed, surly and exhausted and funny without meaning to be, a stone wall standing against age and change and anything against the Empire that is his to protect, to defend. Complete stability in the chaotic life you live, running around from task to task, cave to cave, battle to battle. A pillar to return to. Your commander, the only reason you keep returning, the only reason you make Solitude your home, grace the doors of Proudspire when you could be anywhere and everywhere. He, more than the looming tower they are approaching, is home.

The thought's an odd one, and you slip from his arm, lost in the jumble of your mind. He waits patiently, appearing mildly curious, as you stand in silence in front of your door. Eventually, his voice breaks in.

"Legate?"

"Y/N," is your immediate response, a reflex. As proud as you are of having earned that title in his eyes, Rikke is still the one who comes to mind when you hear "Legate." And up till now, you realize, your title has defined you to him. He doesn't use your name, and now that both you and Rikke are at his side so often, both Legates, you finally have an excuse to make him call you by name. You like hearing him say it, acknowledge you and not just your skills, your accomplishments.

When did I start thinking of him so much? You groan, stepping forward to open the door. You’re confusing yourself, hurting your own head with all this thinking. You’re not used to analyzing yourself, your actions. You just do, act however comes naturally; a creature of impulse, something that got you in trouble a few times while you were making your way up in the Legion. You have enjoyed working under Tullius, however, and that admiration of him has kept you in line and following orders even when the whim of adventure would have scattered you across the region. 

You realize you’re doing it again, thinking too much. It's the alcohol, you know, remembering too late why you shouldn’t drink that often. 

You move inside, and wave him over to the kitchen table while you head downstairs to fetch the wine. You retrieve your oldest bottle of Surilie Brothers Vintage, slightly dusty and chilled to perfection in the small stone room. Your brain starts to whir again, telling yourself you were saving this bottle, but the cold is starting to sober you and you shake off the thinking you detest and go with the feeling that you want to use this bottle, and that's good enough. 

Back upstairs, Tullius seems to have settled himself in the seat closest to the fire. 

"Why," he asks gruffly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "are these darn chairs so low to the ground?"

You’re laughing again; he makes you laugh without trying. "No clue, honestly. Got your wine."

You dangle the bottle in front of him before unstopping the cork. On another whim, you set out two silver goblets and pour, sitting beside him and sliding the drink his way. They are picked up together, and you tap his cup in a small toast. "To home."

He watches you, eyes a bit softer than usual, expression relaxing. "To home."

He's thinking of Cyrodiil. You’re not thinking a single thing; only watching him as you sip, enjoying the wine, enjoying the quiet, enjoying the company. 

Tullius sinks back into his chair, no longer concerned with how short it is, goblet still in hand. "That's better."

You smile, pleased with pleasing him. "How about something to eat while you're here, General?"

"Sounds good." His voice is drowsy, but this time is different from his usual dreary tone. He's content almost, you'd say, a sight you doubt many have ever seen, a tone few have heard.

You down the rest of your drink and rise, heading for your storage of cooking ingredients. You decide on your recipe and retrieves some salt, potatoes, leeks, and venison. Cooking is something you’ve learned to do a lot of while traveling alone, bending over the firepots in eradicated bandit camps and desecrated ruins. Why spend your hard earned septims on tavern food when cheap ingredients abound and it only took a little practise to have your own taste better than what's sold in the inns? Being friends with Castle Dour's own talented chef helps.

You make conversation while beginning the soup base. "So, what do you normally do with your free time?"

"What free time?" He swigs another drink, shaking his head. "I was sent to Skyrim to do a job, so I do it. Nothing else."

"Really? You never have any down time?"

"There was a war going on, Leg-"

"Y/N."

"Y/N, which didn't put itself on hold while I took naps. Free time went to the war."

"And now?"

"What about now?"

"There's no war now, Tullius. What will you do with your new free time?"

He sighs, and you let your stirring stop so you can turn to him, watch him mull it over with his wine. "Apparently, be forced to visit inns and drink."

You laugh, resuming your cooking. "Nobody's forcing you to do anything. You don't like inns, fine. But you're always welcome over here for a drink and a meal."

He glances your way, cool gaze watching, then nods slowly, thanking you in a way he won't with words. Instead, he eyes the cooking pot. "... Smells good."

"Venison stew," you reply proudly. "Something that transcends borders, thankfully."

"Sounds good, Y/N."

The unprompted, causal use of your name, as though it's normal and common and something he does all the time, gives your mind a stutter, and your hands slow again as your head works to catch up. You’re all smiles, warm inside and becoming aware that this night is important to you, though you can't pin down why. But the two of you, holed up in your house, talking over drinks, about to share a hot meal and calling each other by name; it feels as foreign as the snowy mountains did when you left the Gold Coast for adventure and as comfortable as the Legion steel that has become your second skin. You feel like you’re home, really living, more than any of those blood-pumping caverns, adrenalin-inducing dragon attacks, or life-threatening battles.

It's a little scary, and a lot exciting.

And it's only this man who's made you feel like this. On his orders you’ve traversed a strange and new wasteland of perpetual autumn and snow; you’ve faced down a rebel army with a righteous but misguided cause, friends on the opposing side; you’ve trained yourself, worked to be better, fought to impress and rose in the ranks for his praise. You still remember facing the executioner's block, seeing him stare down Ulfric Stormcloak, that tall back you’ve grown to admire so much turned to you, ignorant of your plight, your very existence. It hadn't mattered then; he was a stranger. 

It matters now, just a bit; it's painful. Standing by his side, the feel of his rough hand in yours for only a moment as he passed you his sword to deliver the final blow to his enemy, is a treasure that makes it painful for you. Gods, why do you think like this?

And you freeze, caught in the web your thoughts have woven, hit by the abrupt realization that has revealed itself to you. "By the Nine."

Tullius gives an exasperated scowl (just how many of his subordinates invoke the name of the Nine illegally?). "Legate-"

"I'm in love with you." You stare at him, and both are momentarily stunned into silence. Your gaze trails off, looking at nothing, eyes wide. Abruptly, you drop your ladle and snatch up your bottle. It shakes in your hand, but doesn't slosh; empty. "I need more alcohol."

You make for the stairs. Behind you, Tullius recovers stutteringly, hand to his head in confusion. When you return, bottle to your lips, he's back to his surly frown. "Legate, I don't know if I should be offended or not that the idea of being in love with me makes you want to get drunk."

"S'not that, sir," you reply, shaking your head, and slump down into the chair beside him. You still look in shock, disbelief and wonder on your features. "Alcohol helps me think."

"Then you'd be one of the lucky few, and the only one I've ever had the pleasure of meeting." He shakes his head, refilling his goblet. "Frankly, I just think you've had one too many."

"I won't argue." But you take another swig, swallowing roughly. "Thinking too much. Thinking too much about you, Mara help me."

"Do us both a favor and think more about the stew."

You laugh, but it comes out more like a bark than anything, and you set down your drink to stand and circle the table to the cooking pot. The stew sticks a bit as you begin to stir, but it hasn't burned. 

You sit in silence for several minutes, the bubbling of dinner the only sound between you, before Tullius finally sighs again. "Should I even ask what in Oblivion caused that little outburst?"

"Told you," you reply, eyes on the boiling broth and thus studiously not on him. "Thinkin' too much. I do that when I drink."

He can obviously tell you don't want to talk about this anymore, but he can't let it go just yet. "And what were you thinking that made you think you were in love with me?"

You sigh, cringing, and reach for the alcohol again. He sits patiently while you chug, not satisfied with one gulp, needing the liquid that gives others courage and only seems to confuse you. You hope this time'll be different as you drop the bottle from your lips and take a deep, steadying breath. "I like the way you say my name."

You glance at him, and he seems nonplussed. Somehow his lack of shock, his non-judgment, gives you the courage the wine failed to. "I think of you when I think of home. I fought more for your approval during the war than because I cared about the cause. Your sword is my most treasured possession. When I think of the Legion's victory, of how you've grown since coming here, accepting and respecting the Nords, I'm more proud of you than I am of myself, and I'm the Dragonborn. I worry about how you seem tired all the time. I'm always trying to get you to talk with me. Now that the war's over I'm scared you'll go back to Cyrodiil, because I have no idea what I'd do with myself if you were gone. Divines, I'd probably follow you."

You take another drink, more because you’re ashamed of yourself than because you want it. You swallow too much, choke, and holds your wrist to your mouth while you cough. "Can I stop embarrassing myself now?"

He picks up his own drink, raises it to his mouth. " ... soup's burning."

"Stendarr's mercy!" You half drop the bottle as you whirl around to the cooking pot and begin to stir the boiling contents again. It looks done and, thankfully, not burnt, so you remove it from the fire and set it to cool on the stone floor, heading to the cabinets for bowls and silverware. And, somehow, you manage to get dinner on the table within the next few minutes, and find yourself sitting beside him again, both eating silently. It's awkward, but not strained, and you still finds that you enjoy his company, are glad that it's just the two of you, together. You wouldn't mind more nights like this; maybe a lifetime.

Are you thinking about marriage? You take another bite of the venison, chewing slowly. By Skyrim's standards, you’re not moving too fast, but he's not from Skyrim. Would he even know what you were trying to say if you went upstairs at that moment and came back down with an Amulet of Mara on? You doubt it. But if he did ... the idea is appealing, a life together with him.

If he's interested in you.

You’re off to a good start, you suppose. Legate of the Legion, fought at his side during the war, a breadwinner, adventurer, the famed Dragonborn, and a good cook to boot. Staring at your reflection in the dark stew, you note with a bit of pride that you’re not bad looking. You’re much younger than he is, but as a consenting adult, that's hardly an issue. 

Aware you’re bordering on vanity, you note you’re more than just a good prospect; anyone in Skyrim would be lucky to have you. But none of that matters if the one man you want doesn't want you.

The soup is finished. As you take up the bowls you debate on your earlier thought, of going up to get your Amulet. You'll start wearing it in the morning, you decide. No need to rush. Besides, he might decide to draw a line between Superior and Subordinate before he leaves, and it'll be a moot point. Or maybe he just doesn't like you; you know you annoy him, you do it on purpose because he's fun to aggravate. 

You’re suddenly aware that that's how you flirt with him.

You’ve put up the dishes, and he hasn't risen from the table, so you sit back down and take another drink. Drinking too much, thinking too much, you chide yourself, but you take another sip.

Tullius sets his goblet down after awhile of the silent companionship and turns his eyes to you. "How well do you hold your drink?"

You meet his gaze over the top of yet another bottle (you’re going to have to restock while you and Rikke are out). "Except the thinking too much, I can usually handle my alcohol. I'll be okay to head out in the morning, if that's what you're worried about."

"Just wondering if you're going to remember any of this."

You smile, setting the bottle down. "Yes, sir. You?"

"Yeah."

"Can't escape me, then."

"Doesn't mean you won't regret this. Doesn't mean you'll still feel the way you think you feel."

"I'm not drunk, General. The only thing that'll be different tomorrow is I'll have a headache and probably be a lot more blunt."

"That last part should scare me, shouldn't it?"

You grin. "I find you attractive; I'm not shy."

He cocks his eyebrow, and you laugh. 

"You just think about that while I'm gone, alright?"

"I doubt I'll be able to think about much else."

You shoot him a sly smile. "Why, General."

He groans, leaning back in his chair. After a moment his rolls his shoulder, appearing uncomfortable, and takes hold of it, stretching and flexing.

Eyeing him, you raise up. "Muscle ache?"

"Feels tight, knotted."

"Here, let me." You round behind him, and his hand falls away as yours settle into place and begin a slow, deep kneading into his skin, between the cloth of his shirt and his stiff armor. It's hard to work in such a confined space, and after a few moments you give him a nudge. "Any chance I can get you out of your clothes?"

"Legate."

"I guarantee the best massage you've ever had." You tempt him, twisting your hand as best you can to loosen a tight spot in his muscle, as though to give him a taste of what you could do with more room. "Just your armor, General, and no funny business, I promise."

He grunts his displeasure, but starts to unfasten the torso piece. You revel in a double triumph; seeing Tullius out of his armor, and being able to touch him as you please. You help him pull it off, set it aside, then he relaxes under your hands, your soothing motions untying every knot beneath his skin through the thick red fabric that keeps you from him. You rub his shoulders, pushes your palms into his back, work out every kink in the chiseled mass of his body (or at least the part you are allowed near). And you are rewarded for your efforts when a pleasured groan is pulled from him, unintentional and rough. A thrill runs through you, hitching your breath, and you make it your goal to gain more, continuing with fervor, using every technique you know (which, sadly, isn't much, as what little you do know came from an alchemist who insisted her special potions were the perfect match for such rubdowns). After a few minutes of hard work, you think you’ve finally found a spot he especially appreciates.

Which is about the same moment your housecarl enters the room.

All movement ceases as the two of you stare at each other, surprised and speechless.

"Gods." You finally exclaim. "Jordis! I forgot you lived here."

"Hm?" Tullius looks up, seemingly unconcerned with the interruption, and nods to the new arrival. "You look familiar. Don't you work at the Palace?"

"I was awarded to Y/N when they were made Thane." The blond regains her composure slightly, and turns to her master. "How could you forget I live here?"

You shrug, growing annoyed. "You sleep in the basement. And I don't stay here much."

"You've been getting wine bottles out of my room all night."

"Didn't see you."

"I was laying on the floor."

"Where you should apparently still be. I have company."

"I'm hungry. I had assumed ... from the noises I'd heard," the woman falters, glancing at the decorated officer sitting at the kitchen table, "that you and your company had moved upstairs."

Tullius' response is immediate. "I should go."

He slides out from under your hands and reaches for his armor, and you curse the loss of him, his body and his company, and curse your housecarl, who you wonder if you can fire or somehow return to Elisef without offending her. But neither will undo the damage done, and Tullius is redressed and thanking you for dinner and drinks in moments, heading out the door soon after. You’re left standing in her kitchen, a dull ache in your chest, and the most despised housecarl waiting for the reprimand she knows is coming.

"Jordis."

"Yes, my Thane?"

"I hear the Blades are recruiting. Doesn't that sound nice?"

The next morning is spent much like the last; you wake slowly, staring at the ceiling, feeling lost and alone. You suit up, pulling on your Imperial Light Armor, strapping on your sword, the treasure he gave you, and slipping an Amulet of Mara over your head, letting it rest on your chest where your Amulet of Stendarr normally sits. You don't feel like cooking, settle for grabbing a loaf of bread and slice of cheese on your way out the door. 

You enter Castle Dour as you always have, with the confidence of knowing you belong, and join the ever-present group gathered around the table, even this early in the morning.

"Y/N." Rikke greets you, and you two are as casual as ever, natural friends and easy comrades. 

"Rikke." You return, smiling. "Hope you guys didn't stay up to late."

You shoot Adventus a grin as well, and he smiles back, in his semi-permanent spot against the wall. "Without you to pay for drinks? We all had to go home early."

"I wouldn't call midnight early," Rikke shakes her head.

Pleased, you pat Rikke on the shoulder. "Glad you guys had fun."

"What about you? General kill the party?"

You finally bring yourself to look at the man in question, who's studiously ignoring you in favor of that map, which he probably knows by heart already. You feel laughter bubbling up, and perch yourself on the edge of the table. "General."

He pretends not to hear you at first, but everyone is now staring at him, and he must eventually give in. He sighs, and looks up at you, grumpy as ever. "Legate."

"Y/N."

"Y/N."

It’s all back to business, Rikke briefing you on the schedules, plans, and you’re half listening, half reliving the night before, the things you said. And as Rikke says her quick goodbyes and heads out the door, you linger on the edge of that table, conscious of Adventus' presence but too aware you need to do this before you leave.

You smile slyly, meeting the General's waiting gaze. "Sober and still in love with you."

He grunts. "Was afraid of that."

Adventus cocks his brows, watching you silently, lip twitching in a slow smile.

"Just ... think about it while I'm gone, alright?" You wink, hop down, and make your exit, knowing it'll do no good to look back now.

The jobs are easy, routine. You set up a small camp, Rikke sends you out tromping through the wilderness, looking for Stormcloaks in hidey-holes, and sending a small band in to take out an already confirmed group (which you not only head, but practically leave behind in your thirst for adventure, battle, and adrenaline). The mission takes little over a week, and then new information has them detouring south for a few more days. You’re caught up in it, in a constant state of euphoria, adoring the work and all that comes with it. 

When you fall asleep at night, it's still his face you see, and when Solitude is finally in sight again, job done, you feel the pride of coming home, the skip in your pulse at the thought of him.

Rikke had asked, while you were out, about the necklace. She'd noticed the absence of Stendarr's horn at your chest, the odd sight of Mara's light taking its place. Your reply hadn't been specific, but then, Rikke wasn't overly prying. You'd talk about it, maybe, once things are settled and there;s something to talk about; as it is, there’s only the wait.

"Legates," is the usual terse greeting as you step into the Dour, Tullius and Aventus gathered around the center table, as always. At least, this time, the blue dots are back, marking possible hideouts.

You pull the gifts you’d prepared from your bag and plant the bottle of Sirilie Brothers right in the middle of that map of his. "We have names, Tullius."

He raises his eyebrows. "Y/N."

"I will never tire of hearing you say that."

"And I will never tire of this beauty." He picks up the bottle, eyeing the year, smiling that tiny smile that barely passes for happiness, but is about as good as it gets with him.

You tsk, crossing your arms and nudging Rikke. "We rid three Holds of Stormcloak stragglers, and he compliments the bottle."

He sets the bottle back down, as calm as ever. "You making dinner to go with this?"

You’re thrown for a moment, then quickly bring yourself back to the conversation, delighted. "Yes, sir. Venison again, or something else? Beef or Horker maybe?"

"Do you cook anything without hunks of meat?"

"For you? Darling, whatever you like."

"Wasn't a complaint, Y/N."

"Offer still stands." You’re grinning ear to ear, tickled pink by how easy the conversation is, how the thoughts you’d left him with don't seem to be hurting your banter. He's too professional to have let it interfere with their working relationship, yes, but this is casual.

He's thinking about it, and you’re thrilled. "Horker. Never had it before ..."

"Horker it is."

"Report?" 

And just like that, it's back to business; you’d expected no less. Rikke rattles off the details, only shooting you one curious look during her monologue. Adventus is less subtle, smiling away and avoiding Tullius' periodic glares. There's something there, you don't miss that, and though you’re not sure what the two have talked about in your absence, you’re amused by it.

You spend the day running errands, something the Hold is accustomed to when you don't have a specific mission to trek out upon. Just keeping busy, helping out, but staying close, and when dusk rolls around you’re back at Proudspire, Horker stew on the fire, wine poured, and fresh fruit set out. It's late when Tullius knocks, but everything's ready. When you open the door to reveal him, you find yourself struck dumb.

The General shifts in discomfort, glaring down as though to dare you to comment. You can't look away from him, his clothes. 

He's not wearing his armor.

"Y/N."

You pull your eyes away from the rough cotton, simple and casual, and try your best to form words. "General of the Imperial Army, representative of the Empire's presence in Skyrim, war hero–and you walk around wearing that?"

All of two seconds click past before he turns to leave, and you reach out to grab him, laughing. "No no no, I'm kidding, come back here."

"I don't like all the Nord clothing," he sighs, rubbing his neck. "This was the simplest thing I could find."

You practically push him into the house, then shut the door behind him, cutting off retreat. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me you'd take the old, frayed worker's clothes over anything nicer. Let me guess; you didn't like all the layers?"

He pulls out the same chair as last time at the head of the table and settles in, giving a meager grunt.

You circle around to sit beside him. "You'd be warmer."

"Putting on my armor is effort enough. If I'm going to wear something else, it can't be more work than pulling it on."

"Then why wear something different?"

It's a simple question, but it hangs in the air, and you juggle probable answers in your head that turn themselves into romanticized ones; your comment about never seeing him wear anything else, taking off his armor to rub his shoulders. You try to wave them off before your hopes rise too high. 

He sighs, staring down, and finally reaches for his glass. As he downs his first gulp, you pass him a loaf of bread.

"Enjoy the stew." 

Dinner begins; so does a new tradition. This dinner becomes one of many, as most nights after find the General seated at your table, dressed informally, sipping wine and sampling your newest recipe. Even long work days spent over paperwork and battle strategies end in the Legate's cooking, as you become known for busting into the Castle Dour carrying your culinary creations should your dinner guest not show. 

The High Queen herself has a food invasion in her castle for keeping Tullius too long in a meeting one evening. Tullius, obviously used to your behavior, merely shakes his head and sighs while Jarl Elisef peers curiously at the Legate currently laying out a spread at the small table where her court is convening. Everyone is staring; you don't to care.

You give up your personal time with the man you love for no one. 

You’re more than willing to share, however, and have made plenty to go around. The court continues its discussions between savory bites of thick potato stew and tender roasted rabbit haunches. You sit, quietly and proudly, beside your General.

You are courting. It is never discussed, never made official, but after a while it becomes a widely acknowledged fact and even Tullius himself doesn't dispute it. You are each other's home, the refuge returned to at the end of the day, constant. 

You get into the habit of calling him pet names and pecking him on the cheek when you feel like it (neither of which even phase him anymore) wearing casual clothes instead of armor (especially outfits that show off your muscles. Sometimes you think you catch him staring), and coming back to visit after every adventure, no matter how far away your restlessness takes you or how out of the way seeing him may be between tasks. When you’re gone longer than usual, he has this way of looking at you when you walk in, and you know you were missed even if he won't say so. It always makes you smile.

Still, the weight of the necklace sits heavy against your heart. Every day you wear it, and every day it goes unnoticed–or ignored. You’re happy, you really are, but unease grows at the lack of true claim you have over him. He could up and return to Cyrodiil any day, and what could you do? You aren't his spouse, he hasn't asked you to be with him with any permanence. 

You’re half afraid of losing him if you try to press the issue; half afraid of wasting your life chasing him if this is never going anywhere. 

It’s with this thought distracting you that you lean over the table like you do, hoping maybe someday he might act on what you’re offering, as you spread the food. Your heart almost stops when his hand reaches out. 

He takes your amulet in his hand, letting both continue to dangle in the air between you, and runs a rough finger of the carved surface. 

"Isn't this Mara's?" Tullius grunts. 

"Yes." You’re practically holding your breath. “Of course it is.”

"I thought you wore an amulet of Stendarr?"

After all this time, he hadn't noticed the amulet switch? Mara help you.

"I did." You reply easily, though still unmoving.

"Never took you for a Mara devotee." He eyes the metal disapprovingly. "Why the switch?"

You stare at him. "You don't know?"

His eyes flick to yours, then narrow in confusion. "Know what?"

"It's a Nord tradition here in Skyrim." You smile, trying to hold down a laugh. You'd wondered if he knew, but always been afraid to ask. What if he had known, and was just not interested? But he didn't. He just didn't. "An amulet of Mara is basically a declaration that you're looking for marriage."

Tullius' fingers stop their absentminded rubbing. It's several silent seconds later before you can see him make himself consciously move. He lets the necklace slip from his hand. "How long have you been wearing this?"

You answers softly, pointedly, holding his gaze. "Since the day after you had dinner with me that first night."

He runs his hand through his hair and curses, cringing. "Y/N, I ... "

You’ve stopped breathing again. He looks so tired when he looks at you.

"I owe you a great apology." 

Did you make a mistake? You couldn't have misunderstood, not this, you couldn't have-

"I've made you wait a long time."

You feel the first relieved tear fall as he lays his hand on yours. They become streams when you break into a smile, and he cups your cheek while your sobbing laughter shakes through your whole body. 

You think you’ve finally got control of yourself after a few deep breathes, but you fall to pieces all over again when he comes around the table and takes you in his arms.


End file.
